


In The Bleak Midwinter

by RKMacBride



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Christianity, Christmas, Gen, Having Faith, Loss of Faith, Religious Content, carols, outlaw years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RKMacBride/pseuds/RKMacBride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kid rides out of Devil's Hole on a quest of his own, telling no one except Heyes where he's going.</p><p>This is a genuine Christmas story, a gift from me to all of you, especially those who have read so far in "Idaho Springs, 1881" and are waiting patiently for me to finish it. <i> Gloria in excelsis Deo.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Bleak Midwinter

  


_“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,_  
_Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone._  
_Snow had fallen—snow on snow, snow on snow,_  
_In the bleak midwinter, long ago._

 _“What can I give Him, poor as I am?_  
_If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb._  
_If I were a wise man, I would do my part;_  
_Yet what I can, I give Him—give my heart.”_

 _In the Bleak Midwinter,_ Rossetti

_And in that morn, a King was born, who loves us as we are._

_B.C.,_ Johnny Hart

* * *

          “Uh, Kid? Can I ask you something?”

          “Sure. Any time.”

          “Why do you keep doing this?” Hannibal Heyes eyed his cousin, puzzled. “It don’t make sense to me.”

          The Kid thought about it, in the act of fastening his heavy coat. “I don’t know,” he replied. It was the truth; he knew what he had to do, but why? It defied explanation, even to himself. “Just got to, that's all.”

          There wasn’t much Heyes could say to that. “Well, all right… See you when you get back. Be careful.”

          “I always am, ain’t I?”

 

          A sharp wind swirled snowflakes through the air that morning as Jedidiah ‘Kid’ Curry emerged from the leader’s cabin, and went down to the corral to saddle his horse, a rangy blood bay he’d named ‘Joe’. This one was actually the second Joe, but he looked much the same as the first one had.

          He was just tightening the cinch when Wheat Carlson, Heyes’ lieutenant, sauntered up to him after leaving the gang’s bunkhouse. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

          “On my own business, Wheat,” replied the younger man in a tone intended to discourage any further questions. With a jaunty tip of the hat, he swung up into the saddle and cantered away, down the defile that led out of Devil’s Hole. _I sure hope it don’t keep snowing like this,_ he thought. _I’d rather not ride back through a blizzard, or get snowed in miles away from here._

*** *** ***

          Four hours’ ride on the trails to the northeast brought him down out of the hills and ridges of the Laramie Range and towards the flatter country along the North Platte. In the afternoon light, he could see the sinuous course of the river as it stood out black against the snow-covered landscape around it. It was still snowing, but not hard. He stopped here for several minutes to rest himself and Joe, thinking. From here he could just see in the distance the town of Deer Creek[1], once upon a time a station for the Pony Express. _Suppose Wheat went through there a few dozen times,_ Kid reflected, knowing that Carlson had been a Pony Express rider in his youth. _I ‘member we wanted to do that, but we was both too young. They wanted orphans, sure, but not ten-year-old kids._ The wind was frigid, and gusting out of the north as it flung particles of snow into his face. Casper was about thirty miles or so beyond Deer Creek, depending on which way he took, and he knew where to go once he got there—but it wouldn’t be tonight. Tonight would be an overnight stop in Deer Creek, and then go on to Casper the next day. To go all the way there, turn around a few hours later and go all the way back again, a matter of some 150 miles in 24 hours, would be too hard on Joe. This way they could rest tonight, and take it easy the next day, and then push it faster on the way back. At eight miles an hour, it would take them roughly nine hours, give or take a little, to make it back to the Hole—maybe a little longer, riding at night, assuming the weather didn’t turn sour on them.

          Arriving in the small town of Deer Creek, Kid was relieved to find that the hotel was still there and hadn’t closed or burnt down sometime in the previous year. A group of children and youths with songbooks stood on the street corner as he walked by leading Joe, and began another song. A hand-painted placard read “To Aid the Poor.”

          “ _God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,_  
_Remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day,_  
_To save poor souls from Satan’s pow’r when we were gone astray,_  
_O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,_  
_O tidings of comfort and joy._

 _From God our heavenly Father a blessed angel came,_  
_And unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same,_  
_How that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name:_  
_O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,_  
_O tidings of comfort and joy._

 _But when to Bethlehem they came, whereat this Infant lay,_  
_They found Him in a manger where oxen feed on hay;_  
_His mother Mary kneeling, unto the Lord did pray:_  
_O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,_  
_O tidings of comfort and joy…"_

          He didn’t stay listening to the whole carol, but smiled at them and dropped a dollar coin in the milk can at their feet before he continued on his way to board Joe at the livery stable. _That should help them some._ _Couple of those kids have nice voices. I remember doing that same thing when we were in the Home,_ he thought to himself. _Pretty sure we didn’t sing as good as that, though. Only way Heyes can carry a tune is in an apple basket,_ he thought to himself with a smile.

          Another dollar bought him a room for the night. It was tiny, and had nothing fancy like running water, but it was fairly warm and it was clean. After a plain supper of beans and ham and fried potatoes, he went back upstairs to turn in for the night. “Suppose Heyes is right,” he mused as he pulled his boots off. “Maybe I am crazy to be doin’ this, given what we’re up to these days, holding up trains…'gone astray' is kinda puttin' it mildly.” He sat thinking, much as he had the day before, and came to the same outcome. “Can’t help it. I’m going anyway, crazy or not.”

          Breakfast in the tiny eating-house down the street was bacon and biscuits, with eggs or beans, and coffee. Kid decided he wanted both eggs and beans, which cost him an extra fifteen cents. “You got a hollow leg or somethin’?” asked the waitress, teasing.

          “That’s what Mama always told me,” he said as he remembered the last time anyone had said that to him. He hadn’t thought about Mama or Daddy Burnett—the couple who had adopted him from the Valparaiso Home for Waywards as a gawky fourteen-year-old, angry at the world, and taken him home to Arkansas—in a long time. _Suppose I oughta write ‘em a note one of these days so’s they know I’m still alive and kickin’, and I haven’t forgot about them. But what would I tell ‘em? They’d be right ashamed if’n they knew where I am and what I’m doing. Mama’d break her heart…_ Putting aside those uncomfortable thoughts, he fell to and devoured the plate of food the apron-clad woman brought him, washed down with lashings of hot coffee.

          Noon saw the Kid and Joe out on the road again, after acquiring a few supplies, which he stuffed into the canvas sack (a sailor’s sea bag) strapped crosswise behind his saddle: dried beans, dried apples, salt cod, two pounds of green coffee beans and a long rope of tobacco. “Come on, Joe, we’re on the clock now. Gotta be there by seven.”

**Casper, Wyoming**

          _24 th December, in the Year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, _wrote the rector of St. John’s, Alexander Pearsall, into the book he kept records in for every day of the year. _Weather bitter cold, cloudy, some snow in flurries._ He noted down a few other details of the day, including the Woodworths’ baby he’d christened the day before, and then closed the book. Rising to his feet, he walked to the window of his study, looking out at the leaden sky and the swirling snow, and pondering the details of the sermon he’d prepared for the evening. _I wonder if that quiet young man will come again_ , he mused. Two years ago, a young man had arrived just as the Christmas Eve service began, all alone, wet with snow and evidently having made a long journey to get there. Once the service was over, he had lingered only a short time, drinking in the sight of the evergreen boughs, red ribbons and candles, and contemplating the tableau of the Holy Family in the sanctuary, before putting his hat back on and disappearing like a shadow into the night. No one in the congregation, nor anyone he knew in town, had known who the fellow was. A year ago, on this same date, the same man had come again—that time limping somewhat as if from a recent wound[2], and with his left wrist bound up. _Where does he come from?_ wondered the rector. _And what drives him so, to come from far away to keep Christmas with us here?_ Wondering, he had inquired on occasion of nearby ranchers to see if a fellow of that description happened to be one of their cowhands, though he was fairly sure the stranger wasn’t a cowboy, just from the way he wore his gun. There was something about him different from the average cowpuncher, but the Rev. Pearsall couldn’t put his finger on just what it was. The thing that had struck him the most about the ‘mystery man’ was the sadness. There was a longing in his blue-grey eyes, as if yearning for something forever out of his reach, and no smile lit his youthful face despite the joyous occasion. But that year, he’d joined in the singing, and had stayed a little longer than the year before, accepting a steaming cup of spiced cider before riding away into the moonlit darkness.

          Unconsciously, Pearsall had crafted his sermon—brief though it would be on Christmas Eve, with all the hymns they would sing—with the drifter in his mind. Pearsall knew all of his flock, and many of the townsfolk, and he knew what they suffered, where they erred, and what they needed to hear. He had every Sunday in the year to address their needs, their circumstances. But that lone drifter with the curly brown hair and sheepskin jacket would be here only tonight, if at all. He must need something desperately, in order to keep making the annual journey—or was it a pilgrimage?—in the bleak cold of a Wyoming winter. He began to pray. “Lord, twice now You’ve sent me that unhappy young man. Only You know who he is, what he seeks, or why he comes…”

*** *** ***

          The shopkeeper wrapped up the six-pound ham in waxed paper and tied it with a string. He added it to the customer’s other purchases: four pairs of socks, two dark-blue kerchiefs, eight oranges, a box of cigars, and two dozen peppermint sticks. “Will that do you? Or you need something else?” he called out to his lone customer, who was still looking around the store.

          “Nope, that should do it… Wait a minute.” One corner of the general store had leather goods: gloves, bridles, and other small items like that. In the glass case there was some jewelry such as watches, rings, and other things considered too valuable to display out on a shelf. Something in the case had caught his eye. “Let me see that hatband, if’n you don’t mind.”

          “Sure thing,” answered the shopkeeper, sounding impatient, but interested in the possibility of a good sale. That hatband wasn’t cheap. “First quality split cowhide, with hammered silver ornamentation.”

          “Are those silver doodads going to stay on there? Or are they gonna start coming off in a couple weeks?” It was one of the handsomest things he’d seen in quite a while. When the shopkeeper opened the case and put the piece in his hands, the Kid saw that it wasn’t actually black leather, but very dark brown, with small shapes of hammered silver fastened with prongs that went through the leather itself, and were hammered flat on the inside. “I’ll take this too,” he said, once assured that the silver bits were attached to stay. _A little fancy for my taste, but he’ll like it fine. _

          Although he’d arrived in town two hours early, in the end Kid was very nearly late. He had bought enough supplies to make his journey plausible to the rest of the gang (who he hoped wouldn’t ask awkward questions), and left Joe with a portion of sweet feed as a Christmas treat. He paid the livery stable man to keep Joe and all the provisions at the livery stable for a couple of hours, and he was walking up the street when the bells began ringing. Hastening his stride, he nearly slipped on the frozen mud, but kept his balance and hurried on, making it to the doors of St. John’s in time to not be the last one inside. He snatched off his hat as he slipped into the back pew on the left side of the nave. What was outside the door—where he had arrived from, and where he would return to—remained outside the door. There was no common ground, none at all, between that place and this.

          Rev. Pearsall looked out at the seated congregation, nearly a full house, and his heart lifted as he saw the stranger make his way in and slip into the spot where he usually sat, in the last pew.

***         ***         *** 

          The first carol the choir sang was a familiar one. The assembled congregation also sang, and Kid joined in for most of it, though there were a couple of phrases he’d forgotten.

 _Hark! The herald angels sing,_  
_"Glory to the newborn King;_  
_Peace on earth, and mercy mild,_  
_God and sinners reconciled!”_  
_Joyful, all ye nations rise,_  
_Join the triumph of the skies;_  
_With th’ angelic host proclaim,_  
_“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”_

 _Hark! the herald angels sing,_  
_"Glory to the newborn King!”_

 _Christ, by highest Heav’n adored;_  
_Christ, the everlasting Lord;_  
_Late in time, behold Him come,_  
_Offspring of the Virgin’s womb._  
_Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;_  
_Hail th’ incarnate Deity,_  
_Pleased as man with men to dwell,_  
_Jesus, our Emmanuel._

 _Hark! the herald angels sing,_  
_"Glory to the newborn King!”_

He felt a pang of regret at the words “God and sinners reconciled,” knowing that those words didn’t—couldn’t, these days—apply to him. _Someday, maybe…_

          The choir continued, still on the theme of the angels’ message to the shepherds:

 _Angels we have heard on high_  
_Sweetly singing o’er the plain…_

          Kid faltered, realizing that although he knew the tune well, he didn’t know most of the words anymore. A moment later, he found an open hymnbook in his hands, passed to him by a thin middle-aged woman with steel-rimmed glasses and graying brown hair, who smiled at him warmly before turning back to face the choir again.

 _…And the mountains in reply_  
_Echoing their joyous strain,_  
_Gloria, in excelsis Deo!_  
_Gloria, in excelsis Deo!_

 _Shepherds, why this jubilee?_  
_Why your joyous strains prolong?_  
_What the gladsome tidings be_  
_Which inspire your heavenly song?_  
_Gloria, in excelsis Deo!_  
_Gloria, in excelsis Deo!_

 _Come to Bethlehem and see_  
_Him, Whose birth the angels sing;_  
_Come, adore on bended knee_  
_Christ, the Lord, the newborn King._  
_Gloria, in excelsis Deo!_  
_Gloria, in excelsis Deo!_

          The congregation sang the verses, and then fell silent as the sopranos and altos in the choir carried the _Gloria in excelsis Deo_ into the heights. At the second repeat of the _Gloria_ refrain, Pearsall saw a light come into the stranger’s eyes and bring a smile to his face, for the first time in three Christmases. _Whatever has befallen him,_ thought the rector with a full heart, _he has not altogether lost the capacity for joy._ It’s still there, like a flame nearly gone out, but still flickering in the dark.

          The choir seated themselves, and Pearsall arose to speak. “Good evening, and Merry Christmas to you all,” he said to his assembled flock. “Let me begin with a strange question—why do we say that? Why is Christmas merry? What makes it the most joyous of holidays in every land where it is celebrated? Why were the angels singing Glory to God in the highest? We don’t think about that, do we? We say, ‘it is the celebration of the birth of our Lord Jesus.’ Very well, so it is. And what does that mean? Let’s look at the customary text for this occasion, St. Luke, chapter 2, verse 10:

_10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  
11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord._

          What does it mean to us, that a Saviour is born? To answer that, I’m going to remind you of a different text that is not generally read on this occasion. Jesus tells the parable of the prodigal son, who demanded his inheritance paid to him while his father was yet living—a shameful act, to be sure, for a son in that time and that place. But he compounds his offense by leaving the country and abandoning his duty to his family, and wasting his substance abroad in riotous living. His father, no matter what the disobedient son has done, yet hopes and waits for his return—he does not wish that this son be lost to him forever, even though he has another who has been the model of filial duty and piety. And with the passage of time, the younger son comes to himself and decides to come home to his father, even offering to be made a servant and be no longer treated as a son. What does his father do? He doesn’t merely wait for this lad with open arms, but runs to him in the roadway to welcome him back. We know this story, of course, but what does it have to do with the birth of Jesus?”

          He looked out and met the eyes of everyone he could. “Everything. Because Christ was born, all of us can return—no matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done—all of us can come home to our heavenly Father and be restored to our true home. Think of it—what do people do to celebrate Christmas? We return home to gather with our families, some traveling great distances, for a feast. And in so doing, we reenact the feast of the rejoicing father who welcomes home the one who was lost but was found.

         “This is why we celebrate this day—the birth of the child in the manger makes it possible for us to be welcomed home again with open arms, for God our heavenly Father loves us with an everlasting love. So let me wish all of you once more a truly merry Christmas.” For a few moments, he’d had the oddest feeling that no one else was in the church at all except himself and the stranger in the last pew, but that impression vanished as the choir rose again to their feet behind him. “The choir has a special treat to share with us all tonight—a new hymn, published in England only three years ago: “See, Amid the Winter’s Snow”. After that, please join them in our final hymn for this Christmas Eve, “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”

 _See, amid the winter's snow,_  
_Born for us on Earth below,_  
_See, the tender Lamb appears,_  
_Promised from eternal years._

 _Hail, thou ever blessed morn,_  
_Hail redemption's happy dawn,_  
_Sing through all Jerusalem,_  
_Christ is born in Bethlehem!_

 _Lo, within a manger lies_  
_He who built the starry skies;_  
_He who, throned in height sublime,_  
_Sits among the cherubim._

_Hail, thou ever blessed morn …_

_Say, ye holy shepherds, say,_  
_What your joyful news today?_  
_Wherefore have ye left your sheep_  
_On the lonely mountain steep?_

_Hail, thou ever blessed morn…_

_"As we watched at dead of night,_  
_Lo, we saw a wondrous light:_  
_Angels singing 'Peace On Earth'_  
_Told us of the Saviour's birth."_

                   _Hail, thou ever blessed morn,_  
_Hail redemption's happy dawn,_  
_Sing through all Jerusalem,_  
_Christ is born in Bethlehem!_

          The English carol was a wonderful song, and the triumphant refrain left Kid wishing he would be able to remember all the words later; then he realized that even if he could, there was no one to share the song with. He didn’t dare let the gang find out where he’d been, or for what purpose, and Heyes had long ago given up keeping Christmas; it had lost any meaning for him before he was old enough to shave.

          Those thoughts occupying his mind, Kid nearly missed the beginning of the last song. As everyone rose to their feet to sing together, he was the last one to stand. At least for this one, he needed no songbook, nor did anyone else.

 _O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!_  
_O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem;_  
_Come and behold him, born the King of Angels:_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_Christ the Lord._

 _Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation,_  
_Sing, all ye citizens of Heav’n above!_  
_Glory to God, glory in the highest:_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_Christ the Lord._

 _Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning,_  
_Jesus, to thee be all glory giv’n!_  
_Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing!_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_O come, let us adore Him,_  
_Christ the Lord._

          The last hymn concluded, the congregation turned to one another, talking and greeting each other with warmth and good cheer, and slowly started to make their way out of the nave in the direction of the parish hall. In the last two years, there had been hot cider and coffee and other refreshments, and apparently that was still the case, judging by the number of people going that way. Hat in hand, Kid was debating with himself whether he had time for a cup of that coffee, when a voice interrupted his thoughts. “It’s good to see you again.”

          He turned toward the voice, startled. “What?” _Someone remembers me?_

          It was the woman who had passed the hymnbook to him from the pew in front of him. She was quite plain in appearance, and seemed to be around fifty judging by the silver strands in her brown hair, but there was a warmth and kindliness in her expression that he would not soon forget. She smiled. “It’s good to see you again,” she repeated. “You came last year. And the year before.”

          “Yeah, I did. I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

          “I’m glad you came back again. But you always leave so quickly…”

          “I’m expected back in the morning, ma’am, and it’s a long ride,” Kid found himself explaining.

          “Oh, that’s too bad, having to work on Christmas Day. Perhaps you can take a few minutes for coffee and cake before you go,” she replied, gathering up her heavy woolen shawl in her arms and picking up her reticule from the seat of the polished wooden pew.

          “Thank you, ma’am, I think I will.” She drifted towards the parish hall along with the other members of the flock, and after a few minutes, the Kid went that way too.

***         ***         ***

          For his part, Hannibal Heyes spent a quiet Christmas Eve, mostly by himself with a good book. He was about halfway through _A Tale of Two Cities,_ and this seemed like a good night to see if he could finish it and find out what happened. He had been stepping outside periodically to listen to the sounds coming from the bunkhouse, just to make sure things weren’t getting out of hand with the ‘boys’. Satisfied that all was in order, he stirred the fire up with the iron poker, poured himself a drink, and settled down to read.

          Before long, however, Heyes grew restless. He sighed, and rose to look out of the window of the leader’s cabin, wishing Kid were there instead of up in Casper for the third year in a row under some peculiar compulsion to be at a Christmas Eve church service. He didn’t understand it—any more than he had the year before, or the year before that—but he accepted it.

 _Must be something he got from the folks that adopted him,_ Heyes reflected. _He’s always been kind of funny that way since we found each other again; only fellow I know who actually listens to street preachers._ There was that one time he’d never forget, when they were walking a town in the process of setting up to rob the bank, and suddenly Kid was no longer walking with him, but standing there in the middle of the street like a lost puppy, completely distracted by overhearing some minister leading a tent meeting in the town park. “Will you quit that? Get over here!” Heyes had hissed at him, annoyed at his cousin doing something embarrassing right in front of the rest of the gang, especially Wheat of all people.

          _I just hope he hasn’t gotten into some kind of trouble. At least down in Medicine Bow, most of the town knows us by sight and no one’s planning to turn us in to the law since we do all our business there. Casper’s not going to be as friendly._

*** *** ***

The church’s parish hall was not crowded, exactly, but it was full of people chatting socially and enjoying their cake and coffee before going home. That was one of the reasons Kid made the effort to come all the way north to Casper; it was a big enough town and a big enough church that he could generally arrive and slip away again without attracting much attention. He quietly made his way over to the refectory table and secured a cup of coffee for himself, and a slice of rich fruitcake studded with raisins and walnuts. No one was looking at him, so he took a second slice and wrapped it carefully in a napkin and tucked it into his pocket. Leaning casually against a wall, he tasted the coffee and found it surprisingly good; his slice of cake was already gone. He checked his watch; ten minutes past eight o’clock. _Better get a move on, before I start thinking that I belong here._ Kid finished the cup of coffee, placed it with several other empty ones, and quietly went back into the church itself. No one was there; everyone was either in the parish hall for refreshments or had gone home. Now that no one was watching, he moved forward to see the half-size tableau of painted wooden figures of the Holy Family—Joseph, Mary, and the infant Christ. Moved by an impulse he couldn’t articulate, he slowly dropped onto one knee and took off his hat.

          The Reverend Pearsall was intending to go back into the church’s vestry and take off his clerical garb, but he stopped short when he opened the side door and realized that one lone worshipper was kneeling there in the sanctuary. It was the stranger in the last pew, and Pearsall held his breath as if he feared startling some wild creature who would bolt at the first sign of being disturbed. A few moments later, the man stood up and put his hat back on, and with one last look, turned away and headed for the double doors. “Please don’t go,” Pearsall said suddenly, and the man turned rapidly to see who had spoken to him. Then he relaxed a moment later, and the rector went on. “You’ve come to visit us three times, but you always leave at once. Must you go in such haste?”

          “I’m afraid so,” replied the other man quietly. “I’m expected back in the morning, and they don’t know where I’ve gone. If I’m not there… well, there could be some trouble.”

          “I see. Have you come a long way?”

          The stranger shrugged. “Long enough,” he said with a faint smile. “About seventy-five miles, give or take a few.”

          “Why?” Pearsall was suddenly at a loss for words, now that he was finally face to face with his annual mysterious visitor. “Why go to such lengths?”

          “I don’t rightly know.” There was something bittersweet in the young man’s expression, as though joy and sadness were at war within his soul. He turned to look back once more at the serene faces carved in wood. “But I had to come. Guess the shepherds couldn’t stay away, and neither can I.” He gave Pearsall a sharp look. “You were talking to me, Rev’rend, weren’t you?”

          _Caught red-handed…_ “In a way. I have plenty of Sundays to minister to the people who come regularly. But there are others—not only you— whom I only see once or twice in the year. So, I do my best with the one chance I may have to reach them.” On a sudden impulse, the rector reached to touch the man’s arm. “My son, is there anything I can do for you before you must go? May I pray for you?”

          “Reckon it’s too late for that, Rev’rend, unless Christmas is a special day for lost causes.” That smile again, with so little mirth in it. “You’re welcome to try, though." He paused as if to consider the rector's offer. "There is one thing you could do for me, if you’re willing…” he said as they were walking down the aisle towards the doors.

          “Name it.”

          “It’s nothing much, only by the time I got into town the post office was closed, and I can’t stay until it opens again. Could you take this for me and mail it?” He fished in his pocket and held out an envelope. “It’s to the family who adopted me. Figured I should let them know I’m still in the world, and tell them Merry Christmas.” He reached into his trouser pocket. “Here’s the nickel for the stamp.”

          “Of course I will.” Pearsall took it—it was very thin, as if it held only one sheet of paper, or even just a half-sheet. “There’s no return address.”

          “I don't have an address.  And it's better they don't know, anyway. Thank you, Rev’rend, I’m much obliged to you.”

          “My dear fellow… wait! What’s your name?” But it was too late; the blue-eyed stranger had gone.

          A few minutes later, the man who owned the apothecary a couple of streets over came out of the parish hall and approached the rector with a look of astonishment. “Rev’rend, that fellow you were just talking to… do you know who he is? I just happened to spot him as he was coming out of the door.”

          “No idea, Harry. Why? Do you know him?” Harry Saunders had only been attending here for a few months, being new to Casper.

          “Not by name, no. But I’ve seen him before, plenty of times. I used to live south a ways in Medicine Bow, you know, and there’s this outlaw gang, about nine or ten of ‘em, that hides out up in the Laramie range, place called Devil’s Hole. He’s one of those boys, the Devil's Hole gang. They come down into town every so often for supplies and the saloon and such. Everybody in town knows them by sight, mostly, and they're right decent fellows, for bein' train and bank robbers and all. Why, there was this time we had a big flood—half the town under water, and the leader, a fellow named Heyes, brought the whole pack of 'em down out of the hills to help dig trenches and haul sandbags. Fact is, they ain't bad neighbors to have.”

          “An outlaw…a bank robber? My word,” murmured Pearsall. _That would explain just about everything…_

“Why on earth would he come here?”

          “The same reason that we all did, Harry.” The rector looked back into the empty sanctuary, where the candles shed a golden light on the figure of the Christ child. “The same reason that the shepherds and the Magi came long ago—to honor the King of Kings.”

*** *** ***

          The snowstorm and clouds had been swept away by a brisk cold wind, and in the velvet-black sky the brilliant stars of Orion were climbing higher in the southeast. Below them, one star gleamed like a blue-white jewel, the brightest object in the heavens. _That one’s Sirius, Heyes told me. Wonder if he knows the names of the other ones—probably he does, most of them._ As Kid rode directly towards them, the words of the song came back to his mind: _Lo, within a manger lies/ He who built the starry skies…_ No clouds blocked the view, so hundreds of stars blazed overhead, the Milky Way stretching from southeast to northwest. He urged Joe into an easy loping canter, debating how much energy the bay gelding had against how cold it was. If they kept up a good pace, say seven or eight miles an hour, and made no stops, they could be in Devil’s Hole right about dawn. Or, they could stop and rest for a while somewhere in Deer Creek if they could find a barn or somewhere warm to get out of the cold and the wind. In that case, when they arrived would depend on how long a rest they took.

          They were in luck— the man who kept the livery stable was still there when Kid came through Deer Creek at three-quarters of an hour past midnight. “Howdy, neighbor, Merry Christmas,” said the older man, as Kid reined in Joe by the stable door. “Need to board him overnight again?”

          “No,” explained the Kid. “I’m headed back home and just need to rest for a bit out of the cold, a few hours maybe.” The crystal clear skies were beautiful beyond words, but the icy wind that blew the clouds away was slicing through his heavy coat like a knife through wet paper. “How much do you want?”

          “Nothing at all, pal, it’s Christmas day. Besides you’re not expecting me to feed him, so it’s not costing me a dime. Come on in, and get warm for a spell.”

          “Thank you kindly,” said Kid, and tipped him a dollar out of sheer gratitude.

          It was just after four in the morning that they were once more on their way.

*** *** ***

          The morning light poured in the window, and Heyes finally got up and went to look outside. There was no sign of Kid, and he was sure that he would have heard the three shots if his cousin had gotten back and given the arranged signal. He fought the temptation to worry, forcing himself to regard it all calmly. _He probably just stopped somewhere for the night, it’s so cold…_ Still, it was possible, just possible, that he hadn’t heard it, and Kid had arrived after all, spending the night in the bunkhouse instead of letting himself into the cabin and waking Heyes up. _It’s not as if he can telegraph me that he’s late, after all._

          The young gang leader pulled on his boots and coat, slapped his hat on and walked outside to have a look around. It was so cold that yesterday’s snow made crunching noises underfoot as he headed for the bunkhouse. Then he saw something, and stopped short, staring.

          The boys had made themselves a Christmas tree by decorating one of the smaller conifers near the bunkhouse, a fir tree only a few feet tall. A makeshift star from pasteboard covered with tinfoil adorned the top, and what looked like bits of red ribbon tied onto some of the branches turned out to be someone’s red kerchief—was it Hank’s?— torn into strips and tied into bows. Pairs of empty brass shell casings dangled from branches and jingled together like tiny bells in the wind. Other scraps of tinfoil had been twisted into long pointed icicles and hung in the tree as well, along with little silver stars cut from what seemed to have been an Arbuckle's coffee can. _What do you know,_ reflected Heyes, who couldn’t help chuckling over the irony of it all. _Kid rides a hundred fifty miles to go to a church on Christmas Eve, and the boys make a half-decent Christmas tree out of nothing. Guess that makes me Ebenezer Scrooge, Mr. Bah Humbug in the flesh… the only one around here who isn’t trying to find some way to celebrate a holiday I don’t care about anymore. Last real Christmas for me was 1859..._ That is, before his parents and grandparents—and Kid's, too—had been slaughtered and their farms set ablaze. Their home state had not been dubbed "bleeding Kansas" during those years for nothing.

          He was startled out of his reverie by the sound of three gunshots ringing out in the cold clear air, and then three answering shots. _There he is! Better late than never…_ Now he could breathe easy, knowing that Kid was safe and sound, neither wounded, dead, or in jail.

          A few minutes later, Kid cantered into the clearing, followed by Kyle Murtry, who had had the unenviable task of freezing his ears off at the lookout point, waiting for him.

*** *** ***

          As things turned out, the gang was so happy with the ham, oranges, candy, and tobacco, along with the other edibles that Kid had brought back for Christmas dinner, that no one bothered to ask him where he’d gone, which was exactly according to his plan. He had seemed his usual self that day, though a little quieter perhaps. “Not dangerous quiet like he’s mad,” Kyle described it later. “Mostly just quiet like thinkin’ hard about something.”

          Heyes was inordinately pleased with the silver-trimmed hatband, and he had attached it firmly to his black hat with no hesitation at all.  One of the kerchiefs Kid had bought and two pairs of the socks were also for him, as was the slice of fruitcake, which he duly appreciated.

          That night, after they’d all eaten, Heyes sat down again in front of the fire in the leader’s cabin to finish his Dickens novel, only this evening he wasn’t all alone. Kid had pulled his chair up to the fire too, but he wasn’t reading. He had poured himself a full mug of coffee from the pot keeping warm on the hearth, and was sitting there pensively looking at the fire.

          “You get there on time?” Heyes asked him with some diffidence. The last two years, Kid had not spoken of his expedition at all, nor had he said anything about the experience, playing that hand very close to the vest.

          “Yeah. Cut it a little close, but I made it.”

          Heyes eyed him, considering. His cousin seemed different somehow— less tense, less edgy. “You all right, Kid?”

          Kid let out a long sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

***     ***     ***

_Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in._

_Brooks, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”_

 

 

[1] Now Glenrock, WY.

[2] \--“I thought of the Hanford job in the middle of the night, remember?" --"Heyes, I got shot in the leg on that job, and it netted us seventy-three dollars. Remember?” – _from “Everything Else You Can Steal.”_

**Author's Note:**

> There are several Christmas carols used in this story. All of them are well over 100 years old, and I believe they are in the public domain. No copyright infringement intended; the carols were chosen based on publication date (pre-1870), and textual content.
> 
>  
> 
> Mountain town photograph from Denver Public Library's Western History collection. Possibly Georgetown, Colo.  
> Night sky photograph credit: "Winter Sky" by Tunc Tezel from TWAN (The World at Night), http://twanight.org/newTWAN/photos.asp?ID=3001720.


End file.
